


Wildberry Stew

by crepesamillion



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, New Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25890898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crepesamillion/pseuds/crepesamillion
Summary: Willow listened to Wes's explanation of his and Wilson's confessions and considered herself an expert matchmaker.
Relationships: Wes/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 40





	Wildberry Stew

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of old but I finished it. I don't write anything except banter and awkward relationship stuff, apparently.

“Wilso-o-o-n!” Willow groaned, deflating until she slumped back and hit the grass like an overturned burlap sack of flour. She stared into the sky. The clouds were spread as sparing as butter on an old lady’s toast, and their underbellies shone a blinding gold. Cold grass prickled the back of her neck. 

Why was he ignoring her? She crinkled her nose. _Skritch skritch._ Wilson’s feather pen continued to scrawl over the map at the desk. Maybe he hadn’t heard. How old was he, anyway?

“Bleagh!” Willow raised her legs a couple inches and let her heels fall back to the earth with a _plop_. Her heartbeat fluttered in her ears. 

_Skritch skritch._ Then the scrape of the ink canister being drawn closer.

It was getting dark. If he didn’t leave soon, she would have to stall her plans until tomorrow. 

Tomorrow? Ugh. Waiting meant patience. Willow wasn’t well acquainted with patience.

“Wilson. Wilson.” Willow patted her palms against the grass, adding a rustling melody. “Wilson What’s-your-name. Wilson-Wil-Willie-Silly-Billy.” She drew a breath that made her lungs squish into her ribs and expelled it with every muscle in her gut: 

“Wil _son!_ ”

A couple of birds squawked and exploded into the air in a cacophony of shrieks and feathers.

“For pete’s sake, Willow!” Wilson jabbed the quill pen into the can of ink. “What is it?”

A grin crept over her face and mashed her cheeks. With newfound energy, she planted one elbow in the dirt for leverage and rolled to her stomach. Cupping her chin in her hands, she crossed her ankles and idly swung her legs up and down.

“Oh, nothing. Just checking on my sweet big brother. Whatcha doing there, Wil?”

Wilson watched her through squinted eyes. One corner of his mouth cranked up in a sneer of disgust, as though he’d caught himself with his foot about two inches away from some ripe roadkill.

“Since when did you have interest?” 

Since never. Willow fluttered her lashes. “Since always. C’mon. You’ve been scribbling on that map thingy for hours. What gives?”

Wilson’s eyes tracked back to the map, then returned to Willow. “Err . . . map . . . thingy?”

He was such a genius. Willow rolled her eyes heavenward, then let her chin squash back into her palms. Since yesterday he’d carried himself as though he’d scooped out the last of his brain cells and released them into the gurgling river like a handful of ducklings. 

“Yup. What’s the notes for?” A yawn swelled up her throat and put pressure on the back of her tongue. She dug one nail into the soft dirt. The grass around her blurred into blue sequins.

“Oh. Notes. Right! Well.” Wilson’s gaze wandered back to the map. “I’ve been recording characteristics. Of each biome, that is. Species unique to each range, and weather patterns, uhh . . . flora and fauna, and, uh . . . .”

Next time she had trouble drifting to sleep, Willow would ask him to explain something, and she would be unconscious in five minutes.

“Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” She plucked a clover from a clot and dangled it, shaking flecks of dirt from the thread-thin roots. “That’s real boring, Wil, I—oh, my gosh!” 

She sat upright, stiff as a concrete slab, and flung away the clover. “You know what I just realized?”

Wilson clung to the desk, tipped forward in the chair. He stared at her, cheeks gray as ash.

“Wh . . . what?”

“We are totally out of firewood.” Willow thrust her hand into her bangs. “I can’t believe I forgot to mention that earlier.”

Wilson eased the chair back onto its four legs. Rattled as dried pintos in a can, he glanced askew and pushed his fingers into his hair. “Miss Willow, I just brought some this morning. As much as I could carry.”

“Yeah. Which is three twigs and a pinecone.” 

“That should be enough to last the night.” A hint of vinegar seeped into his voice. He grasped the quill pen again. “I’m busy, Willow. It’s been a tad tough concentrating today.”

A quark of inspiration ignited in Willow’s mind. Minuscule, but enough to seize.

“Exactly! Of course your brains will rot if you’re hunched over a desk all day.” She filled this sentence with as much contempt as she could muster. Wilson sank lower in his chair like a kicked hound pup. “What you need is to get out of camp. Right now. This second. Get some blood moving through those chicken legs. Old people sit outside all day in chairs, Wil. _Old!_ Are you old?”

Wilson gripped his chair, his knees together and the scuffed toes of his shoes aimed inwards. If a spider the size of a cruise ship had boiled out of the woods in a froth of webs and uprooted trees, he would have looked no more panicked. He glanced from left to right as if waiting for intervention.

Willow scrambled to her feet, grabbing a handful of her skirts to shake grass free and at the same time stomping her heels into the dirt. “Hup! Hup! Run a mile! Get on out there! Fresh air! Hup!”

“Yuh—yuh—” Words gummed up in Wilson’s throat before he managed a “yes, ma’am!” that was about ten octaves higher than a toddler seeing a kitten. He bolted. The chair tipped, teetered, and clattered to its side. 

“Don’t forget my firewood, Wil!” Willow cupped her hands around her mouth and projected the shout into the evening air. Invigoration swept through her nerves like hot summer air. She breathed a gusty sigh past her teeth and let her arms drop to her sides. 

Finally. He was gone.

She hitched up the hem of her skirt, tucked her elbows against her ribs, and darted for the east side of the camp. 

When she galloped past the rickety science machine that chugged away under a cluster of pines, a fragrant sweetness coiled around her, mingled with the scent of soil and leaves. Fruity and tart. She snorted in a breath. 

Wes stood at the cookpot that rattled on a tripod of wood. Angling the lid over the pot with one hand, he churned the contents with a carved spoon, popped it free, and pushed the spoon into his mouth.

“Oh, Wessie!” Willow called in a mixture of singsong and howl. Wes doubled over. The lid banged against the side of the cookpot, jostling it from its plateau. It tipped. Wes fumbled to grab the pot and steady it, then wrested back his hand and wrung it with a hiss. 

Willow bounded to his side and hurled one arm around his shoulders. “Whatcha cooking?” She rose on tiptoe, swayed, and peered into the pot. A stew of pulverized red and purple berries bubbled, coated in a head of pink foam. 

“Wildberries again?” She extended a pinky and dug it into the pot, scooping out a glob of berries to pop it into her mouth. Savoring the heat and tang, she swiped her sticky hand on her skirt.

“Wilson’s gone,” she said. She stiffened her arms and pushed Wes back. He stumbled. “I sent him out for firewood. So-o-o . . . “

Wes averted his gaze. His cheek hollowed when he chewed on the inside. Turning back to the pot, he jabbed the spoon into the glop and stirred. 

“Wes! Not you, too!” She locked her arms in a steel-strong fold across her chest. “Wil has been brainless all day, and now you’re acting funny. I did all that work chasing him off so we could talk. Now c’mon. You have to tell me what happened last night!”

Wes kept his eyes fixed on the boiling mess of jelly. His stirring slowed. Willow craned her neck and squinted. Was that a smile? Maybe? Wait. It was. His slash of black lipstick thinned when he pressed his lips together, but they pursed in a little curve despite. 

“Oh, my god.” Willow leaned forward, weight on her toes. Her pigtails slid down her back and dangled at her sides. “This is killing me. Wes!” 

He glanced at her. The glaze of a daydream fogged his eyes.

Willow clapped her hands against the sides of the cookpot with an eardrum-splitting smack. Wes jerked the spoon free and skittered back in the arc of red jelly that splattered.

“I’ll eat this entire pot and the lid if you don’t tell.”

Wes flung his hands up. One fist touched his chin, then swept forward with two fingers extended.

“Okay, okay." His hands fidgeted around the signs. “Please don’t eat the pot. Wil might be hungry by the time he gets back. Where did you run him off to, anyhow?”

Forgetting to answer the question, Willow hooted. “‘Wil’! You’re using nicknames again!” Wes had referred to Wilson with three fingers stretched in a ‘W’ that he circled just below his chest. 

Wes faltered. “You saw that?"

“This is even better than I thought.” Willow ran her tongue over her teeth. She whipped out one arm, caught a fistful of Wes’s sleeve, and tugged downward to haul him with her when she sat. She crossed her legs, swatted some wrinkles from her skirt, and smacked her palms to her thighs.

“Now. I want the whole story. Details, Wessie, I need details. What did you two talk about? Did you tell him? Did you follow my advice? What did he say? Did he cry? Did _you_ cry? Did he—”

Wes touched one finger to his lips and shook his head. “Do I have to tell it if you already imagined the whole thing your own way?"

Willow squealed. “You’re doing this on purpose! I’ll burst. Excuse me for caring about how things go between my brother and my best friend.”

“Oh, Willow." The motions of his hands softened. “All right.” A resigned sigh. “I'll tell you everything you want to know."

“Goodie!” Willow settled herself, grass scrunching under her legs. “Go on. From the start.”

“Well . . . “ Wes hedged. “After I talked with you, I decided you were right. I needed to make sure Wil knew I wasn’t angry with him for what he said. About . . . you know . . . how he felt. Or—” His face scrunched. “Maybe I was pretty angry at first. Or more like extremely angry and I can't deny that I considered wringing him like the chicken he is. But he didn’t have to know that part, right?

“He didn’t even look me in the eyes at first. I think he was more embarrassed than I was. It was a mistake, though. Admittedly. We both know he doesn’t tend to think before he speaks.”

“Don’t I know it,” Willow interjected. 

Wes blew air into his cheeks, then let it out in a puff. 

“Sure. Anyway. He was flustered. Saying I heard wrong, or he didn’t mean it, or he just misspoke. Kept changing his mind about what it was. Then said it was a spoonerism. He didn’t say ‘I love you, Wes’; according to him, he said ‘it was all a mess.’ Like . . . are you serious? He was choked up when he said it.”

“He’s a dork.”

“Maybe. After that, he changed tactics. Trying to act tough about it. Challenging me, as if I'd concocted the whole idea just out of desperation to pick a fight. Like I was gross for even _thinking_ he’d said it.”

Willow sucked in a breath that made her molars ache. “Gross? Wilson calling _you_ gross? Boy. He must have never seen himself cry. Or heard himself snore. Or seen himself with that scraggly two-week rat beard. Or smelled himself. Or—”

“I get it, I get it!"

“Tee hee.”

Wes shifted his shoulders as if to dislodge tension. “So I guess I just . . . went full throttle. And I might have told him maybe I was just hearing something I wanted to hear. I, uh, wasn't holding myself together the best.”

The conversation lulled.

“Y'know, Wes, this isn't exactly the happy story I was hoping to hear.” Willow folded her arms and narrowed her eyes. “This better end well, otherwise I won't know which of you to lace into first.”

Wes gave a soft puff of a laugh. A laugh? Maybe that was a good sign.

“It's okay, Willow. Both of us knew already, it was just a mess trying to sort it out. Then _he_ started getting all watery, and—”

“You made my brother cry?"

“—and he finally asked what I would think of him if he meant it.” His hands slowed, as though he were groping his way through a dream. “I got the funniest feeling when he said it. His voice cracked. We weren't even looking at each other, but that was _it_. When I took a peek at him, his head was down. All that snap and spit from earlier was gone and he looked twice as small as usual. And you know what? The weirdest thing is that I wanted to . . . “ 

His fingers furled and his hands sank. 

“When he asked what I would think, it settled everything. I still don't know how, but it did. I wanted to go on and on and tell him, ‘Wilson, I’d think it’s just the best thing that’s ever happened to me in my life’ or ‘Wilson, I think I love you, too,’ but he wouldn't understand so I just nodded. And somehow it was enough.”

Willow blew a whistle through her teeth. “Whew. That's it? That's how you two made up? That's not how it happens in the pictures.” 

Wes offered a placating smile. “It worked for us well enough, because after that we—”

His hands froze midair, arms paused.

“You what!” Fingers clutching her knees, Willow rocked forward. “Wes! What did you do!”

Wes's eyes dropped to the ground. A grin cranked up one corner of his mouth.

“He tripped into my arms and we just . . . held each other for awhile. He kept talking and talking. And then he looked up at me. Did you know you can see every star in the sky reflected in someone’s eyes like that? And we stared at each other, and he put his arms around me and—and then we kissed.”

Willow leaned back. Oh. Huh. Wow. They kissed. Well. That fit all the criteria of ‘kiss and make up.’ Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa. They _kissed_? That soon after an argument? For the first time? Wes's magnetic charm knew no bounds, apparently.

“You kissed? Like . . . on the mouth?” She raised her eyebrows.

Wes pursed his lips. “Right on the mouth.” His fingers waggled teasingly. “Really slow and easy at first. Testing it. Just dry little smacks. Soft and quiet with our breath held, barely tasting, barely feeling. And then we got more into it. Open mouth. Tongue. A nibble here or there. He's not a very good kisser, by the way, but somehow it was still the most amazing kiss I've ever gotten in my life.”

Willow stuffed her knuckles against her mouth. “I think I'm gonna be sick.”

“What!" Wes's fingers clipped the word. “You're the one who talked to me about making up and confessing.”

“Yeah, but like—” Like what? She considered. “You _kissed._ You kissed Wilson.”

Wes's gaze drifted. “That's . . . not all we did."

“Oh, no.”

"Yep."

"Oh, _no._ "

“See that tent back there?” Wes pointed with a flourish to the row of flimsy hide tents that lined the edge of the camp like fangs poking out of gums. 

Willow twisted around. “The one where Wil walked in on you that time?”

“Right." Wes winced. “But that's old news.”

Old news . . . ? “What's the new news?”

Wes put his finger to his lips. A glint of mischief lit his eyes like a firecracker. “You didn't hear it from me, but making tender love under the moon and stars is a _magnifíque_ sort of heavenly."

“You did _not_ just say that.”

Wes smothered a laugh behind his hand. 

“You didn't!” Willow lunged, twisting Wes's collar on her hands before crumpling against his chest. Her composure dissolved like sugar in hot tea. Of all the things.

A giggle bubbled up her throat like heartburn. Of all the _things!_

Wes and Wilson. Her easygoing best friend and the awkward brother she'd never known she had. Wes and Wilson, the two mile-high egos who'd clashed like black coffee and lemonade ever since they met. 

A laugh shot out before she could stifle it. Suddenly weak as unsalted broth, she clutched Wes's shirt and sank halfway into his lap, melting with laughs that rattled loose too fast for her to take a breath. 

“You—I—” She swallowed, but as soon as she closed her mouth, her cheeks ballooned with a laugh that erupted with a _pfft_. “No wonder Wilson didn't want to walk much today. You tore him up!” She hooted.

“Didn't I!" 

Willow heaved a shaky breath that teetered on the brink of another laugh. Her gut ached. “Whew. Thanks for the mental image. That's the last thing I ever wanted to picture, but it was hilarious.”

“Please." Wes's fingers moved with exaggerated precision, dripping cheekiness. “Hilarious? Anything but. It was gentle. A bit clumsy maybe, but aren't all first times?"

“O-kay!” Willow scrunched her legs beneath her and stood so quickly that her pulse throbbed in the sides of her head. “I'm out. That is way more than I ever needed to know. Didn't need it. Thanks again, Wes.”

Just as she began to bolt, something grasped her ankle. Instinct wrenched her leg forward. _Thud._ She wrenched her neck to squint over her shoulder. Wes lay on the ground, one hand locked around her boot. He offered a sheepish grin.

“Oh, c'mon! Get up.” Willow grabbed up her skirt and kicked. Wes released his grip and looked up at her.

“Thanks, Willow.” His grin softened. “I'm glad you pushed me to go talk to Wil. Really glad. It was all we really needed to get our thoughts out there."

“Don't mention it! Really. I'll bring it up myself every time you crawl up my butt about something or other. Wil, too. You both owe me."

Wes rolled his eyes. “I'm sure we would have figured it out eventually.”

“You think? Wilson is as in-tune as an old guitar that's been run over, set on fire, and fished out of a bog thirty years later. He's as romantic as a wet brick. And you—"

“Me?”

“Well, you . . . oh, look!” Willow relieved herself of the obligation to answer with an expansive wave. “Smack-talk Wilson and he shall appear. Yoo-hoo! Wilson! The fire-pit is this way, sweetie!”

Yards away, Wilson stumbled over his own feet. Hacked-up branches clattered from the stack he wrestled to haul. He grappled to catch one, missed, and tripped again. Branches fell like matches from an overturned box, and he tumbled with an impressive ten-inch skid face-first into dirt and pine needles.

“You sure pick the charmers, Wes,” she muttered. She put her hand to her chin and shouted, “Hey, Wil! When I said you could only carry twigs and a pinecone, that wasn't a dare!”

The reply came as distant as an echo in a cave and muffled in dirt. 

Willow glanced down at Wes, who sat on the ground with his knees tucked to his chest and his arms folded atop them. He watched Wilson as though in a trance. His head must’ve been absolutely full of air and cotton candy. 

“I swear, Wes, if you're thinking about my brother's d—”

He _smiled_. Willow squinted. Oh, no. Heck, naw. She nudged him with her boot.

“Have you gotten your nose out of those moonlit clouds from last night yet?”

Wes shook his head. “Nope.”

Willow sighed. “Well, keep it there. The longer you’re lost in outer space, the less I have to hear about you two.”

Wes didn’t even spare her a glance. He still gazed across the rippling grass as Wilson picked himself up and collected his sticks.

“Aren’t you the one who was so desperate to know how it went?”

“Oh, shut up, lover-boy. I really might barf.”

Willow shuffled Wilson’s load of branches into her own arms effortlessly. Relieved of the burden, Wilson doubled over, hands on his knees. Each breath came out in a labored whoosh.

“For goodness’ sake, Wil,” Willow said. She slung the bundle of kindling to the side. It cracked against the ground and shuddered. Willow slapped bits of bark and splinters from her hands. 

Wilson raised his head to look at her, pitiful as a scraggly old dog shoved outside in the rain. Willow was almost sorry for him—until his eyes cornered at Wes. 

Willow could practically feel the heat radiating when their eyes met. Wilson’s flushed cheeks went a couple shades darker, almost as red as his heavy knit sweater vest. He ducked his head so fast that something in his back popped, but not fast enough. Willow caught a glimpse of the smile he tried to hide. A big, dazzling, giddy, goofy smile that she’d never seen on his face before.

Somehow, her heart tore like an old yellowed coupon ripped in two.

It was as sudden as a slap. Willow’s eyes began to burn. Her throat itched. What in the . . . She snuffled and scrubbed her forearm across her face with all the determination she’d use to scour the sin out of a congressman. 

She clenched her fists by her sides and squeezed until they shook. Forest air full of pollen and gnats swirled in her lungs when she sucked in a breath. Somehow unable to stop herself, she stamped her foot against the dirt so fiercely that tingly static crackled up her leg. Both Wilson and Wes started with surprise and looked at her.

Awkward, gangly, too tall and terrified, Willow balked in front of her audience. She swallowed. Her eyes flooded, and the last iota of her resolve frayed away like twine over a candle flame. Words globbed up in the back of her throat and stuck there.

“I—I—I _love_ you guys!” It came out in a strangling sob. Cracked like a teacup hurled against a brick wall. Her voice was ugly and goopy. “I love you and I’m so happy for you and it’s making me feel weird! I want you to be happy with each other forever, and love each other, and have the best lives that any two stupid sappy dopes could ever have together because you deserve it more than anything!"

She sniffed hard. Her eyes ached and her brains swam languidly in a warm gravy behind them. She set her jaw and glared at Wilson. He’d gone pale as a bowl of mashed potatoes, as though he might faint away if the breeze picked up.

Willow spun on her heel and marched away. Her shoulders were drawn up so tight and stiff that her skull ached and might crack any minute. She stomped on. A few birds clamored and shot into the sky, beating wings and spewing feathers.

“Thank you, Willow,” Wilson said, tugging out the words as slow and stringy as saltwater taffy.

Wes shook from his trance. He glanced at Wilson and curled his hands and crossed his arms in front of his chest. 

“Tell her I love her too.”

“Wes loves you, too,” Wilson called. 

“I know!” 

Wilson sighed. He watched Willow fume away with her pigtails streaming behind her. He breathed another soft, longing sigh before he spoke.

“I should have known she was up to something. She can’t keep from poking that nose around in everyone’s affairs.”

“She gets it from you.”

“What? I don’t—”

“The nose thing.”

“Genes don’t work that way.”

“Oh.”

Wes smoothed his slacks over his knee, back and forth. Wilson straightened up and engrossed himself in studying a rock that he nudged over and over with his shoe.

“So . . . you told her things?”

“Yeah.”

“Like . . . ?”

“Everything that happened last night.”

“Everything?”

“Yeah.”

“But not _everything,_ right?”

“Everything, Wil.”

“She knows about—?”

“Yeah, Wil.”

“Even the—”

“Yes, Wil, I told her about the sex.”

Wilson pressed the sides of his hands together like an open book and shoved his nose into them with an exhausted groan.

“I didn’t tell her about the details, if that helps,” Wes offered.

“What details are there to even tell?”

“You’re right. You don’t have much to brag about.”

“Wes-s-s-s-s.” Wilson pulled his hands down his red cheeks, tugging his lower eyelids with them. “You said—”

“I’m teasing. It was the best night of my life. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

“ . . . Really? That soon? I mean . . . I don’t think I’m . . . . “

“You’re terribly old, Wilson.”

“I’m not! I just don’t want to . . . err, waste anything.”

“Waste _what?"_

“You know . . . .”

“Wilson, tonight you are going to get in that tent, lay down with my arms around you, and let me kiss your lovely face until we both fall asleep. Fair?”

“Fair,” Wilson said reluctantly. “As long as you don’t tell Willow.”

“I can be selfish. Some things I wouldn’t dream of sharing with the world.”

“Such as?”

“The whirlwind of feelings I get when I hold you close and count stars in your eyes and realize that every dream I’ve ever had has come true, all woven together perfectly, solid and real and shaped like a scientist.”

Wilson mulled this over. 

“Is it any scientist in particular?” he ventured, almost wistfully.

“Yes, Wilson. It’s Tesla.”

“Really? I’ve always felt the same.”

“No, it’s not Tesla. It’s the dumbest one I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

“Me?”

“You.”

Wilson fidgeted with his rolled shirt cuff. 

“That bit you mentioned earlier.”

“Mhm.”

“Does it have to wait until tonight?”

Wes’s heart did a couple of somersaults, like a lazy butterfly doing loop-de-loops on the summer breeze. He only spread his arms in response.

Wilson closed the space between them in a few shy steps. He stopped, considered, and sank to the ground, suddenly hesitant. One of his ankles cracked as he bent. Wes circled his arms around Wilson’s skinny shoulders and tucked him close, dragging him into a strong yet soft embrace. He buried his nose in Wilson’s hair to nuzzle insistently.

Wilson rested his hands on Wes’s chest. He lightly ran his finger over the stripes across Wes’s shirt, back and forth.

“Wes . . . ?”

Wilson’s voice softened, almost a sleepy mumble. Wes scrunched lower, rubbing his nose into Wilson’s hair by his ear.

“If Willow comes back, just tell her I tripped and you caught me.”

Wes laughed quietly. 

“I insist,” Wilson said. “Or if you’d prefer, you could say that you put me in a headlock and I passed out.”

“All right.”

“Wes . . . ?”

Wes folded Wilson closer.

“The thing we said yesterday.”

“Mhm.”

“I still mean it.”

Wes sighed. It emptied a pressing weight from his lungs, leaving him feeling light and fresh and content, as if he’d just stepped out of a steamy bath or had a frosty glass of lemonade. He shifted Wilson to his other arm, locking it tight around him. With his free hand, he ironed away some of the wrinkles from Wilson's vest. Wilson watched as Wes skimmed his fingertip over the crochet, tracing words airy and gentle on his chest.

“I love you, too, Wilson.”

Wilson plapped his hand atop Wes’s. Didn't grab, or hold, or squeeze—only rested it there. Rested it there to keep Wes's hand in place on his chest, pinning those words beneath it to memorize the feeling and never let them go.


End file.
